


He Wants a Fight -- Now He's Got One

by heymacareyna



Category: 50 Shades of Grey - E. L. James
Genre: AU, Abuse, Bonding, Destruction, Female Friendship, Fix-It, Gen, HasASpine!Ana AU, Independence, Other, Self Confidence, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem, The noncon warning is about the past abuse that they're dealing with, UA, Unhealthy Relationships, christian is an abuser and ana realizes it, girls coming together to destroy their abuser, how clear can i make this?, leaving an abusive relationship, property damage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9562850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heymacareyna/pseuds/heymacareyna
Summary: Kate has finally gotten through to Ana: Christian is abusive. Ana works her way toward escaping him, and after bonding with his employees and his exes, she destroys him. Fix-It fic, but better.





	1. The First Step

**Author's Note:**

> "Pain is not a side effect of love." -Tyler Oakley
> 
> "Don't play his game. Play yours." -Rachel Caine

I shake as Kate pulls out a PowerPoint slideshow of all the things in my relationship with Christian that I’d accepted as normal. They aren’t. Not at all. I’ve had no romantic experience before him… yet somehow I’d thought I was smarter than this. _Abuse?_

How have I sunk this low?

Horrified, I curl into myself. Ugly heaving sobs tear out of my throat. My best friend gathers me to her and pets my hair as she rocks me. “It’s not your fault,” Kate whispers, her voice thick and wet. Water dampens my hair, and I realize she’s crying too. “All you wanted to do was love someone, and he took advantage of that. You had no idea what to look for. He’s the one to blame, not you. It’s not your fault.”

This sounds false—of course I’m to blame. I let this happen. I asked for it somehow.

But as I weep, she continues to comfort me, and the words resonate, begin to sink in. _Took advantage._ I trusted him, and he betrayed me. It began so slowly, and I stopped seeing him for who he was but as I wanted him to be. No matter how much he tries to shift blame onto me for what I “make” him do, he is solely responsible for what he does.

I need to escape him. But how? He’s proved time and time again that he has the power to stop me. And I’m not strong enough to stand up to him on my own, at least not yet.

“I can’t leave,” I whisper as my sobs peter out. “He’ll find me. He always does.”

Kate quiets, thinking about this. I know she isn’t dismissing my fear, so I wait. Finally she suggests, “Maybe you can start small.”

This is how I find myself standing in front of the red Audi A3 he “gave” me, my keys in one hand and an aluminum baseball bat in the other. I’m trembling but I summon my courage. It’s midnight, with no street lights to reveal me. I left my phone at home since I know he traces the GPS on it. I have no idea if he has a tracker on the car itself. It wouldn’t surprise me. But I’m parked outside my apartment like usual, nowhere that would make him suspicious.

I grip my keys hard.

Before I lose my nerve, I rip them down the side of the car. Metal screeches in unholy protest, but the roar in my ears drowns it out. I slash at the hood, the back doors, the trunk, the bumpers. I never wanted this car, this reminder of his dictatorship over my life. After stuffing the keys back in my pocket, I wrap both hands around the baseball bat and swing as hard as I can. The driver’s side window shatters. It takes several blows to break the windshield; my arms already ache. I revel in the sensation. My biceps aren’t the only thing that will be stronger after I’m finished here.

I step back to admire my work. Every window lies in pieces on the asphalt and the leather seats. The body is gouged in ugly gashes. I almost wish I could take a photo, but there can be no evidence, no suggestion that I did this. He would find out, and he would beat me, harder than ever before. I know this without a doubt.

In the morning he appears, though I didn’t contact him. “What happened to your car?” he asked, voice dark, eyes glittering with anger. My pulse pounds in my throat. Does he know?

“One of your exes shoved a letter in my front door,” I whisper, praying he can’t see through the lie. “She threatened me. Said I didn’t deserve you.” The sentiment is true—I _don’t_ deserve him. I deserve better.

“Show me the letter,” he orders.

I swallow hard. “I burned it. I was scared.” I _am_ scared, but not of some imaginary jealous ex.

He goes dangerously silent, and I no longer mistake it for any kind of protective knight-in-shining-armor mystique. He’s violent. He doesn’t love me any more than he loves a punching bag. If he defends me, it’s not on my behalf; it’s on his.

I wait for his response. Unlike with Kate, terror buzzes under my skin, almost numbing my hands. What if he decides to take it out on me?

Tears sting my eyes. He pulls me in roughly for a hard hug, making it worse. When I only stiffen up, he lets me go—almost pushes me away. He leaves with no further “affection.”

I’m still terrified. But I also know I need to free myself.


	2. Alliances

Christian glowers when he finds my clothes sliced and shredded—that is, the clothes he bought and intimidated me into wearing. He’s furious, and on top of that, I dulled a good pair of scissors in my determination to destroy the outfits beyond repair. I don’t regret it. It has healed a tiny piece of me.

I blame it on the imaginary jealous ex again, for my own safety. The lie gives me an idea.

He leaves me alone at his home while he leaves for some errand that he doesn’t explain to me. (When I ask, he says, “It doesn’t concern you.” Old me would have accepted that blindly. I don’t want him to know I’m now a different person, so I don’t press.) I take the opportunity to talk to Taylor, whom Christian left in charge of my “safety”—my containment. I have two questions for the bodyguard, neither of which Christian would like.

First, I ask Taylor if he knows who bought my old Volkswagen Bug from Christian when he sold it without my consent.

Second, I ask for names and numbers of the other women Christian has signed sex contracts with.

He has neither answer available immediately, but later he comes by to bring me some snacks, and underneath a plate I find a handwritten list.

Kate lets me borrow her cell phone as I call my way down the list. The first person, the Bug buyer, is horrified when she hears the circumstances of the sale and immediately agrees to return it to me. She paid next to nothing for it, and I pay her back when we meet. She hugs me when she gets out of the car. Though I’m unused to physical affection that doesn’t come with an emotional price, I hug her back.

The rest of the names are all exes. As I introduce myself to each one, I learn that I’m not alone. The low self-esteem, the dubious consent, the whiplash mood swings… Christian has been broken for a long time. Broken beyond repair, I now realize. Some people are born sociopaths, and no amount of love or hope for their improvement will change them.

We cry together. We reassure each other. We make plans to get together for coffee and commiseration. And after I’ve befriended them (and they’ve befriended each other—we’re all in this together), I propose an idea.

“He’s just going to keep doing this to other people,” I say, the words painful. “We need to stop him.” Though I don’t know exactly how to do so, we are a varied group, and we can collaborate on the details. “We need to take him down. For good.”

Agreement is unanimous.

I cede leadership of the group to our oldest member, Shaundréka, who’s in her late thirties and (this amazes me) a pro bono lawyer for the underprivileged—she took her pain and channeled it for the greater good. Maybe one day I can find the strength to do the same. Under her guidance, we brainstorm and plot and orchestrate Christian’s downfall. To my dismay, the plan we craft involves me staying with him a little longer, but the end goal will see him destroyed. I will have the support of all my new friends; they understand the weight of this sacrifice. I do it for them.

I find Ms. Jones, the housekeeper, in a spare room when Christian leaves the house. She handles me with care, with concern, and I know that she knows there is something deeply wrong with this mockery of a relationship. I confide in her, ending up in tears yet again. _One day,_ I tell myself, not for the first time, _the tears will run dry._

She takes me to a back room, where Taylor waits. I begin to describe the abuse I’ve endured, that countless other women have endured, but he gently cuts me off. “I know,” he says heavily. “I’m so sorry.”

He then tells me he is not who he’s said he is.

Jason Taylor, the ex-military bodyguard, doesn’t exist.

Behind layers and layers of an impenetrable false identity, he is Taylor Cho, a current-military undercover officer. And he has been assigned to gather evidence against Christian, but even after several years, every shred of evidence has fallen through. Even Taylor’s work has become a victim of Christian’s manipulations.

“Let me know if you girls need anything,” he tells me. Regret creases his expression. “I’ve seen too many of you leave with open wounds.”

Part of me wants to blame him for not doing something, but I can see his remorse. Even before this, he has done what he could for me without outright defying his employer. Given his higher purpose, I can understand his logic. If Taylor’s identity were compromised by his active dissent, Christian would walk free for good, and he would continue to hurt women with no one in his inner circle trying to stop him.

Maybe Taylor could have done better. Maybe I could have too. We’ve both made mistakes, and casting blame will help no one.

“Thank you,” I say, and I explain the intricacies of our plan to dismantle Christian and everything he holds dear. Taylor listens. He almost smiles.

He adds his input, and when I relay the new information to the group, we agree: we have a powerful ally. We integrate his ideas into the scheme.

Then begins phase two.


	3. Doing Business

Having compared our stories, we know how Christian manipulates us. We know how insidious his mind games are. Now we use this knowledge against him.

I shrink as much as I can—I need to look small and harmless and self-loathing, the way he wants me. As best I can, I build up an emotional wall to keep from internalizing his degradations and anger. And then I set the trap.

“I don’t deserve you,” I murmur, self-deprecating, when we’re in bed that night. “You’re so beautiful, and I’m… me.” As I say the ugly words, I remind myself of what Kate has told me over and over: I _am_ beautiful in my own way, but more important, I’m becoming a better person. He is not better, or higher, or worth more than I am. Not in any form.

“Oh, Anastasia.” He strokes a hickey on my shoulder that he gave me after I told him not to. “You’re so important to me. No one else comes close. I don’t know how I would function without you.”

I shudder at the familiar guilt-inducing words. He said this to every one of us. I know this. Yet I still have to remind myself that he doesn’t mean it.

Luckily he mistakes my shiver of horror for pleasure at the flattery. “Don’t you believe I care about you?” he asks, subtly vilifying me for doubting him.

My subconscious and inner goddess—besides being ridiculous ways to sort through my thoughts—have no defense against him. I abandoned them long ago. _Wall. Wall. Wall,_ I chant to myself. I try to look pitiful. “Sometimes I think you’d be better off without me. You’d be happier.”

He thinks he can buy his way out of any problem, and his response proves it: “What do you want that I haven’t bought for you?”

I look away and whisper, “I want my publishing company.”

Christian stills. “Why? You’re an editor, like you wanted.”

 _Please don’t see through me._ If he thinks I want control, he’ll try harder to crush me. I douse my words in as much pathetic self-hatred and misogyny as I can muster. “The other editors are prettier than I am. They think they’re better than me. I bet they haven’t even read _Tess of the D’Urbervilles.”_ I sold my first-edition copy last week; it was a horrible disfiguration of romance, not to mention an attempt to buy my loyalty. I’ve put the money in a high-yield savings account.

My logic is a stretch at best, but I whine a little more, appealing to his own need to use money to downgrade others. I frame it as a way to make the other girls look worse, not to make myself look better. Eventually he capitulates, using it as fodder to tell me how kind and generous he is. I fawn over him the way he wants, and in the morning he signs the publishing house over to me.

I still taste the bitterness of badmouthing other women who had done nothing except exist. To alleviate my guilt, I make a point of apologizing to the entire group the next time we meet.

After a little time passes so he can forget about the business deal, I make the same trade: excessive praise and self-loathing for monetary “love.” This time I tell him my family thinks Christian wants me to be fiscally dependent on him. He does, of course, want this, but he doesn’t want anyone to suspect it. To put these made-up worries to rest, I ask for a huge Certificate of Deposit in my name (at the advice of Maria, a financial services rep in the group). Since CDs can’t be withdrawn before they reach maturity, he sees this as a safe bet, and the next day I call the bank and set security measures so that if he tries to mess with the money, they’ll contact me without alerting him to any trouble.

I complain that I look ugly in all my clothes and that if only I could acquire some designs to call my own, those Horrible Blondes at clothing stores wouldn’t look down on me. Christian buys me an entire fashion line and, at my request, both renames it after me and writes ownership to me. I reinstate the existing CEO and make co-conspirator Emilie, a professional designer, a partner. We decrease production costs and donate the extra profits to charity. She does beautiful work. One of my personal favorites is a dress the color of the Communist Manifesto.

Carefully I work my way into a good chunk of his financial dealings. I complain flatteringly about how rich he is and how he shouldn’t buy me this business, that investment, and those buildings just because I want them—and then, as if by magic, I become the owner of them all. He puts them in my name with an underhanded reminder that I don’t know enough to take any real control. The fact that I leave them all but untouched suggests I agree with him.

I let him think I’m materialistic and vapid; it’s safer that way. If he finds out I have intelligent, independent ideas, the entire plan will crumble.


	4. Struck Down

From down the hall, Christian snarls, “Where is Taylor?”

His angry voice makes me tremble. I know what follows if I’m close enough for him to touch. Before he sees me, Ms. Jones pulls me into a spare room, and I send up a silent prayer to bless her and all her descendants.

“It’s time,” she whispers and holds out the wire that will go inside my shirt.

With a nod I steel myself. We’ve been building up to this, planning it from day one. It will work. It _has_ to work. Doubting myself, yet unable to back down, I force myself to walk into the belly of the beast.

Christian glowers at me when I find him. I want to cower, but I fist my hands and stand my ground. “This doesn’t concern you,” he snarls, dismissing me as he always has. With me, with every woman he touched. And that will be his downfall.

I ease my voice to sound reassuring, soothing, but every word that comes out is scripted by attorney Shaundréka and a few other women who have worked with the law. He is so used to talking around me that he doesn’t notice when he contradicts himself, or admits to obtaining my consent through alcohol and sex. When I know he’s said enough, I decide I might as well get in a hit for myself. Go big or go home, right?

“Did you see the car I drove today?” I try to sound casual, but my gaze is hard.

He waves an irritable hand in the air. “No. I have more important things on my mind.”

I suck in a breath to bolster my courage. I point to the window. “It’s parked out there if you want to see.”

“Why would I care—” he starts, but then he looks at me for real, and something he sees makes his eyes narrow. Straightening, he strides to the window; he squints at the beat-up blue Bug for a moment before it registers. “Is that the damn Beetle?” he demands.

“Wanda. Yes.” I keep my distance. I’m brave, but I’m not indestructible.

“I should have sold it for parts,” he mutters before turning toward me. “How did it get here?”

“I drove it,” I repeat.

His jaw clenches. “And how did it get to you?”

Shaking, I raise my chin. “I bought it back. After I demolished your stupid Audi and those stupid clothes you made me wear.”

Fury clouds his expression, tenses his muscles to make him look bigger. _“You—”_

The door slams open then, Taylor flashing his badge and yelling all the clichés I thought were only in cop shows. In a rush other officers, identically dressed, follow and help him subdue the struggling, snarling Christian. Another puts a protective arm around me and ushers me out of the room. Curses taint the air, some directed at Taylor but most at me.

The chaos cracks what little composure I had mustered; in high-pitched jagged noises I breathe too quickly, too shallowly. Adrenaline jitters through me. Swinging my gaze up and down the hall, I stare wide-eyed at nothing. Desperate for freedom, I scratch at the arms holding me.

The officer speaks to me over and over in the tone usually reserved for injured wild animals backed into a corner. The repeated phrase eventually filters through: _You’re safe. It’s going to be okay, Miss Steele. You’re safe._ I’m crying yet again (will the tears never end?) but I sag as the emotions overwhelm and exhaust me.

Safe.

When the court date arrives, the other women and I sit pressed together in a long line, clasping hands as hard as we can. Christian sits on the other side of the courtroom—I had expected more of his typical scowling and intimidation tactics, but he’s all charm and poise today. A reminder that he is a sociopathic chameleon, shifting his appearance at will. Unwilling to pain myself by looking at him, I stare straight ahead or at my friends. Nowhere else.

We go up one at a time to testify. Some of us cry. (Miraculously, I do not.) We expose him for the manipulative, abusive slime that he is. Then Taylor comes out with the evidence—the recording from the day of the arrest, the financial records of all the businesses Christian has bought out for personal rather than company reasons. He used the Enterprises money, but his company had no use for a publishing house, a fashion line, a bookstore-café. Especially when, recorded, he admitted to his non-business-related intentions.

Embezzlement. Physical, emotional, sexual, and economic abuse. Felony, felony, felony, felony, felony.

Christian leaves the courtroom sentenced to prison. We are permitted but not obligated to keep the assets he wrote over to us. As planned from the beginning, we choose to keep them, in a way.

Money is power. We learned that much from dealing with that terror. So we use his money to empower others who have dealt with the same terror. In those very buildings Christian bought me, we open a shelter for people escaping abuse.

Shaundréka brings her clients in need of help, and they stay as long as they need in the recovery process. Maria provides the shelter residents financial advice as they learn to stand on their own two feet again. Emilie cuts the fashion line’s prices as well as costs so that the high-quality look is available across socioeconomic borders. When my Certificate of Deposit reaches its maturity date, I withdraw that hefty sum of money and its pile of interest, and I donate half to the shelter and reinvest the other half. We run a nonprofit shelter and invest wisely so we can continue to do so.

In dark days I rely on these women just to keep my head above water, but those days become fewer and farther between. Though I’ll never forget what I endured, it gradually stops haunting my dreams and tainting every interaction with men. I may not be a natural leader, but I am no longer a doormat, and I’m learning to love myself.

None of us will fall prey to another Christian Grey. And as far as we can prevent it, no one else will, either.


End file.
